


In the Forests of the Night

by Unsentimentalf



Series: Fearful Symmetry [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-08
Updated: 2012-05-08
Packaged: 2017-11-05 01:28:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/400413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unsentimentalf/pseuds/Unsentimentalf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>He was losing count of his individual betrayals but he knew he was personally responsible for pretty much every single aspect of Moriarty's downfall.  Tomorrow would come justice, delivered no doubt with all the considerable malice that Jim Moriarty was capable of. </i>
</p><p> </p><p>Moran centred sequel to Run, Neon Tiger</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Forests of the Night

The first sight of him sitting in the cell made Sebastian think of a child in detention. Brown eyes wide, as if startled, hair tousled, and so small, so still. His right hand was gloved in black.

"Got three minutes, Boss. Better run."

They ran, past the sprawled lifeless bodies that reminded Seb of John Watson and the man Sebastian Moran wasn't. He could hear Moriarty's feet behind him; trainers beating on the ground. Past the drugged sentry at the gate, into the rain, round the corner into the waiting car. Seb drove through the London afternoon, windscreen wipers lashing, conscious that the man in the seat beside him had yet to say a word.

"Glove box. Passports, travel docs. We've got a flight to Sofia from Glasgow 7am." 

Jim opened the glove box with his ungloved hand, leafed through the papers carefully. There were details of their personas, itineraries, the hotel address. 

"Shredder on the back seat." Moriarty would remember everything that he read. He looked behind Seb's seat and laughed- no, cackled, just once, a quiet, awful sound. Then he wound down the window and began feeding sheet after sheet to the road.

"Boss!" Seb protested. "What's wrong with the...." shredder. On the seat behind him. On Moriarty's right. The man couldn't reach over and get it with his left hand. "Shit. Sorry." 

The papers were gone now, blowing over London, getting soggy in the rain. Nothing interesting, nothing to link to them except one mention of each pseudonym. They'd be unlucky to have anyone take an interest, but they would have two Holmes on their trail. Moran expected to be unlucky. There went the hotel in Sofia. Back up plan.

At the next set of lights he glanced over to his passenger. Jim had his eyes closed. He always fell asleep when Seb drove, and he was snoring loudly after five minutes in silence. Like old times, but not at all like them. 

Seb drove some way up the M1 and out into the countryside, found a deserted farm lane. Moriarty woke, watched him change into the business suit he'd brought. He left the boss privacy to change (slow, slow!) out of his prison clothes while he applied makeup to hide the scar down his face then checked through their cases one last time. Nothing except the handful of printouts they were each bringing to the PR conference, work laptops, phone, a paperback novel each. No gun. Airport security was good, here. He clamped the fake latex hand around one case.

"Come on, Graham. Stop pissing around. I need a drink." He turned, unsurprised, to the brash PR man grabbing the case from his hand. 

"Just checking I've got it all."

"Fuck it. You can get them to email it later."

"If there's wifi. You know what these places are like, Del."

It was nothing like talking to Jim. He'd get nothing now except Derek Moore until Moriarty chose to drop it. Confrontation postponed a little longer.

It was a long drive through the night up to Scotland. Instinct had demanded that they get a flight as soon as possible, but Seb knew when instinct was wrong. All the UK airports would be on alert but the London airports were bound to be looking harder. He drove a little above the speed limit, Radio 2 on quietly, Jim shifting occasionally in his sleep. He didn't muse about the past, or the future. Not breaking the boss out hadn't been an option.

The airport security was the danger point; they would have been alerted to the fugitives by now, but Jim's sleight of hand and distraction was still unparalleled. The woman never noticed the artificial fingers. The plane was busy and they sat apart; he walked to the toilet once to check Moriarty was OK, saw him scribbling left handed on the back of one of the print outs. He didn't look up.

Jim followed Seb without comment at the airport to pick up baggage that neither of them had checked in. The carousel brought round an old favourite rucksack of his; not a perfect fit with their disguises but he'd know if it had been tampered with since he'd sent it off via a smuggling route two days ago. It hadn't. 

There was a small car hire place attached to the little airport; he hired a nondescript executive Skoda for a week and they were on the road again, southwest towards Greece. Midday; they'd need something to eat soon. The plane had served crap, even in business class. He was getting tired, now; he've been up 30 hours straight. Jim was sleeping again with his mouth open.

He stopped at a shopping centre on the outskirts of Sofia. "Food, and changes of clothes." Jim hopped out of the car, still being Derek, stayed so through a mediocre meal and the choice of hiking and casual clothes. It didn't matter much; Seb assumed they'd be traced this far. He was hoping the next move would shake the pursuers.

Back in the car and a change of direction to north west. He drove in silence for hours. Jim still slept. 

Seb knew the mountainous Serbian border, from years back. One of several ski resorts lay a good forty miles off the main route, about four miles from the border. No snow this early; the hotel they checked into was near deserted, pleased to see a couple of mountain hikers. Seb led Jim into one out their two rooms, locked the door, checked automatically for bugs, then swung his rucksack onto the bed.

"Right."

Nothing from his boss. Not yet.

He opened the bag, pulled out a file, handed the first five sheets to Jim. "Assets and bank accounts, frozen or seized."

Jim read them through, wordless.

Next a single sheet. "There are six bank accounts and five properties not yet frozen, but the details are known and the relevant governments are under pressure from Holmes. Access could be tricky."

A raised eyebrow. Jim dropped the paper on the bed.

Another sheet. "Three new bank accounts that Holmes doesn't know about, in the name of Robert Crisp. Everything else is gone, Boss. I suggest you consider this all your working capital."

Jim looked down at the paper, looked up at Seb in a mockery of excitement. "Nearly three million pounds! I'm rich! I can buy a small house in Baker Street with that!"

Seb shrugged. "Wouldn't recommend it. London property's a mug's game." Another envelope. "Documents and history for Robert Crisp. Irish passport." He set those aside.

A box. He opened it, took out the small gun with his left hand, loaded and cocked it, unloaded it again, all single handed, pushed it towards Moriarty. 

Jim took it, repeated the process, a little awkward. In the meantime Seb put together his own gun. That felt better, not that it would protect him from the current danger.

"We can cross the border tomorrow, hole up in the hills for a bit, or wherever you choose. Assume all your contacts are compromised. I've got some clean ones left."

Jim cocked the gun, trained it on Seb's forehead. "Thorough, as always, Sebastian." Seb was pretty sure he was referring to the dismantling of his empire rather than the rescue. "What funds have you got?"

"Eight hundred grand out of Tigris. Boys don't get paid this month." He regretted screwing his security staff over; they worked hard for their money. Tigris Security was gone forever now. He wished Jim would move that gun away. His heart was racing.

"Good. Go shopping." 

Seb picked up the scrawled list, frowning over the spider handwriting.

"Where the hell am I meant to get this lot? This is a village in rural Bulgaria off-season boss, not central London. And it's past five; what there is will be closed."

"Don't care." Jim gestured at the door with the gun. "Don't come back till you've got everything."

"Fine." He grabbed his share of the shopping bags and his rucksack, took the second room key from the table. His phone's number was in the one he'd given to Moriarty. 

Seb changed into dark clothes, took the car down to the nearest real town, a couple of hours' drive. As he expected everything was closed, so he'd have to get the stuff some other way. He went back to the car, sat in it and reread the list, pushing aside the thought of what Moriarty wanted the items for. He could guess that, near enough; no need to dwell on it now.

There had been a hardware store. That would supply most of the stuff. It was likely to have some sort of security, so go there last. Silk; the haberdashers. The grocer's would have spices and olive oil. There was absolutely no way he could get hold of the required sex toys in this little Catholic community, but there was a chemist and gift shop with candles. They'd have to do. He could get the bandages there as well. With luck the gift shop might have silk scarves which would cut down on places to break into. This was a bloody stupid idea, especially on fuck all sleep, but Jim knew that, had told him to do it anyway.

Three was still too many. Cut the grocers; he'd get what he needed from the hotel kitchens; their security would be non-existent. Two, then. Gift shop first. It was getting dark; he hid the car out of town, went for a purposeful wander around the back streets, keeping to the shadows. 

There was a family living behind the gift shop, large and busy. He walked past the window again, glancing at the candles on show. Most were for devotions; he would bluff this one, less fuss than shooting. He knocked at the back door, slid into his rusty Serbian. A message, his mother, far away, taken seriously ill; he couldn't leave until tomorrow but he needed a candle to light for her. 

The woman was hugely sympathetic. He was shown around the shop, bandages and antiseptic disappearing under his coat as they walked past the shelves, chose half a dozen candles in different sizes and could he take some of the beautiful scarves for his mama? Of course he could; he paid for them all, thanked her warmly. Took his purchases back to the car. One down.

The hardware store had a man working late in the stockroom. No possibility of the same trick working twice. He walked in through the back door, gun in hand, tied the guy up with some of his own rope then worked methodically through his list. Nylon and hemp rope, chain in two different thicknesses, eight padlocks of various sizes, pliers, bolt cutters, hacksaw, welding torch and fuel, and several knives. Rucksack full, he dumped about twice as much money as the stuff was worth in front of the gagged man.

"Call the police and they'll take this away from you." He dropped a knife in front of the man, blade accessible. "You'll be free in half an hour. Keep the money and keep quiet." 

The man nodded. Eighty twenty he wouldn't report it, Seb reckoned, and chances were the police wouldn't be looking for hiking Westerners anyway. He walked quietly back to the car, headed back on the long drive to the hotel, changed and dropped into the almost empty kitchen to beg a sandwich, picking up a pocket full of chilli powder and a bottle of olive oil when the single kitchen staff member was distracted.

Everything. It was nearly midnight. Seb was tempted for a second to lock his door and crash, face the boss in the morning, but he was in enough trouble already. He knocked quietly on Jim's door, pushed it open. Jim had been napping on the bed in nothing but underwear. He'd done little but sleep since Seb sprang him. He opened sleep smeared eyes, his hand under the pillow on the gun.

Seb closed the door. "Got everything. It's in my room; want it here or there?" Boss has put on a bit of weight in detention. The glove was off, the hand a mass of scar tissue, the remaining ring and little fingers half curled. 

Jim sat up. "You're exhausted."

"Yeah." I had to kill four people to get to you and I didn't get to sleep in the car he nearly added, but snarking at the boss never turned out well.

Jim rolled over to one side of the mattress. "Come to bed. The rest will wait."

The boss always wrong footed him, every time. Seb took off his boots, hung his jacket over the chair. His gun went on the bedside cabinet. He lay down on his back, waiting, but Jim did nothing and in a couple of minutes exhaustion had dragged him into sleep.

He woke in darkness. Jim next to him was scuffling, whimpering. That was new. He kept still for a bit, in case it was a trick, but Moriarty was asleep, and having nightmares.

Seb had seen video of most of the interrogations. They were lightweight stuff by his standards and Jim had seemed to shrug them off, but as far as Seb knew the boss had never been on the wrong side of information extraction before. Maybe that was it. He shifted around to gather the small body in his arms, soothing him quietly, hand in his hair, "It's OK, boss. Got you now."

Jim wriggled closer, settled to a quieter sleep. Fuck. This was weird, having the boss cuddled in his arms. He felt an unexpected wave of protectiveness. Most brilliant guy in the world and no-one else in the whole world took care of him, only Seb. Like John and Sherlock, except that Moriarty wouldn't have taken any bit of that punishment for Seb, and John wouldn't have shot Sherlock's hand off. So not like at all, really. Boss was one of a kind, which made him one of a kind too. He could live with that, if Jim let him live at all. 

He could feel Jim's breath warm against his chest, dipped his head to breathe in the scent of the man's hair. He was losing count of his individual betrayals but he knew he was personally responsible for pretty much every single aspect of Moriarty's downfall. Tomorrow would come justice, delivered no doubt with all the considerable malice that Jim Moriarty was capable of. Tomorrow was tomorrow. He pulled Jim a little closer and fell back asleep.

"Breakfast!" Crowed in his ear.

"What?"

"Room service brought breakfast." Jim was climbing back into bed, a laden tray in his hands- how did he do that? Held with the left, resting on the remains of the palm of the right. He'd got a lot more use left in it than John Watson.

"Did you let them see your hand?"

"Your beautiful handiwork, Sebastian? Aren't you proud of it? Shouldn't I show it off?" Jim slid the tray over to him, waved the ruined hand in front of his eyes. 

"Let me see it properly." He caught hold, smoothed his thumb over the scars. "Does it hurt?"

"Treachery always stings. Ask John Watson if you don't believe me. Eat your breakfast, pet."

He ate somehow, past the lump in his throat. It would be today. Jim, dressed in hiking clothes, had acquired a map from somewhere and was studying it.

"Where are we going?"

"Here." Moriarty jabbed a finger in the general vicinity of a lot of mountains. "You can drive out as far as here, then it's about three miles walk. The hotel is providing packed lunches. It's fun, this. Why do we never go on walking holidays together, Sebastian?"

Too busy running the world, maybe. "What shall I bring?"

"Everything on the list, of course."

Some holiday. 

They navigated to the isolated track, set out to walk through the chilly forests at the base of the mountains with the assistance of a GPS and the faintest remnants of a path. Jim was breathing heavily after a while; he'd never been very fit and the month in detention hadn't helped, but he stayed cheerful, pointing out birds Seb had never heard of, commenting on the geology of the mountains, and he overrode Seb's suggestion that they stop for a break. "Got to get on, Seb. Stuff to do."

Eventually they came to a stone hut next to a mountain stream. Moriarty had a key, on the hotel's fob. Inside there was a small kitchen with camping stove, a bedroom with four bunks, and a living room with cut wood stacked by the fireplace. "They let it out in season," Jim said cheerfully. "I've borrowed it for the day, very reasonable rate, and no-one within miles. Light the fire."

Here, then. For a moment he worried about Jim walking back alone through the mountains, having to navigate that rough track one handed in the unsuitable car. Habit, to look out for the boss, even now, but unnecessary. Moriarty had planned this. Moriarty would survive it.

With the fire starting to blaze the room seemed inappropriately welcoming. Seb dumped the rucksack on the floor. "Want me to unpack?"

"Please." Jim seemed fascinated by his movements. "Did you bring your gun?"

He unholstered it in response, placed it on the single cupboard, out of easy reach, went back to pulling objects out of the rucksack. Chains, welding torch, pliers; this was pretty grim stuff. The bag of candles. "Nearest I could get, boss, short of driving back to Sofia." 

Moriarty fingered the largest. "That will do nicely, I expect. You're always a smart boy, Sebastian, except when you're astronomically stupid."

Seb sat back on his haunches, looked up at Jim. "That's it." 

"So it is." Jim's eyes were hard. "Strip." 

That was familiar enough, at least. It wasn't too cold in the fire-lit room. He'd got the start of an erection: Jim did that to him. No point in hiding it. Boss always knew.

"Do you expect to survive this?" Genuinely curious, as far as he could tell.

He thought carefully about his response. "That's your decision. I'm just following orders."

"And what do you think I'll decide?"

"I've never figured you out, boss," he said, honestly. "Anyone else, I'd be dead already, but then anyone else I'd have killed them first."

"Yes." With some satisfaction. Jim picked up the pliers. "How much do you think you'll really co-operate, when it comes down to the blood and the guts? You must have some instinct for self preservation left, even if everything you've done recently suggests otherwise."

Seb shrugged. "Guess I'll fight back at some point. I suggest you make sure I can't, if you want to avoid being hurt."

Purred, sarcastic. "Surely you wouldn't hurt me, Seb." Acid. "No, wait. You shot me. To save John Watson. John Watson, Sebastian. Sherlock's boring obnoxious stupid lapdog. You couldn't have been more insulting if you'd tried."

"No." He really was extremely sorry that he'd done it. Still, John would have died else, slow and painful, like this. Just fucked both ways. God was he fucked. He couldn't not think about it any more. It was here.

"So, chain or rope, sweet? Give me some advice." It turned into a technical discussion of the sort Seb was most comfortable with as he demonstrated knots that could be tightened with one hand and ways to fasten chain reliably around wrists and ankles. By the time they'd finished he had his hands pinioned behind his back with nylon rope and he was kneeling on the mat by the fire with an ankle chained to the iron grate. It was uncomfortably hot. Now his options were seriously limited, which was oddly comforting. He could let go of the huge effort that was his self control a little now, if he needed to.

Jim saw that. Jim smiled. "A little more relaxed now, aren't you, now that you can't run? Anyone ever tell you that you're seriously perverted?"

"Occasionally." He sat back on his heels, waiting. Boss was a tiger. At some point in this process the boss was bound to screw him. His thoughts lingered on that, his erection growing heavy between his spread thighs, trying not to think about the probability that he might not have the equipment left to enjoy it by then.

"Sebastian." Moriarty smoothed his good hand over the scars on his shoulder, the other marks that Jim's tiger claws had left. "What on earth am I going to do with you?"

No reply was possible.

"Of course, an objective observer might say it was my fault. I took my eye off an adulterous traitor armed with a gun while I prepared to shoot his lover. Anyone with any sense would have told me to kill you first. Sentiment, Sebastian, had been my undoing. What should I learn from that?"

"I guess you won't do it again." Seb shivered into Jim's cool touch. He was losing it, control. He'd be begging soon, for something, anything. Hell of a way to die; no fucking dignity at all, but that was Moriarty. 

"Would you?"

"No." He was sure now. John Watson got himself into that sort of mess again, he could damn well get himself out of it, or call on his bloody boyfriend.

"Would you kill him for me?"

"Yes." They'd all had their chances. Time to pick a side and stay on it, 100 percent. No question whose; he'd killed four times to break the boss out of Mycroft's hands.

"Your obvious sincerity is adorable. But far, far too late."

Moriarty picked up the knives, one by one, placed them on the edge of the fire with their tips in the flames. He'd singe the handles and warp the blades; no way to treat a weapon, but Seb kept silent, apprehension sharp enough to be a pain in the pit of his stomach.

"Nothing else to say?"

Seb shook his head. There wasn't anything at all.

"Let's find another use for that tongue, then." Jim plucked one of the knives out of the fire, held it up in front of Seb's face, the edge of the heated blade towards him. "Come on, pet. All the way up."

He didn't pause to think about it, his tongue out and licking up the blade in one fast action. The pain came afterwards, appalling.

 

It was some interminable time later that Jim finally let his head go and stepped backwards. Blood and semen dripped onto the stone floor from around his ruined tongue, seared and sliced repeatedly. He could feel the damage screaming along every nerve. If he survived this- if- it was far too wrecked to heal.

Jim read his thoughts. Spoke to him while buckling up his belt. "Want to see, sweet?"

Seb braced himself, nodded. The boss disappeared for a moment, came back with a small mirror and a torch. "Ready for this?"

Another nod. The pain was awful. 

Jim snorted in amusement. "Voila!"

Seb blinked at the mirror, then again. His extended tongue looked...normal. Almost. There was certainly blood welling from a couple of lines along the middle, but not in quantity. Patches where the taste buds had been seared were smooth and reddened, but it wasn't even swollen, though he could have sworn that it would no longer fit inside his mouth. 

"Good as new in a few days. Still, it was enjoyable, wasn't it? All that screaming. All those lovely nerve endings. Remember and learn, Sebastian. Time for that packed lunch, I think, though I imagine you won't want yours."

He unlocked the chain around Seb's ankle, let him flee to the stream, bury his burnt tongue in the cold water, his hands still tight bound behind him. Eventually the pain had lessened enough that he could have tried halting speech. But when he lifted his head to Moriarty smiling down at him, he had nothing to say.

"I was feeling generous." Jim's voice was smooth. There were knives in his belt and Seb's rucksack, half full, over his shoulders. "Twenty minutes start. You've wasted approximately sixteen already. I suggest that you run."

Seb didn't ask why the chase or what would happen if he was caught. He didn't bemoan the absence of his clothes or the rope around his wrists. He scrabbled awkwardly to his feet and took off up the stream, the boss's laughter following him into the trees.

Even barefoot and wrung out from the morning's ordeal he was much physically fitter than Jim. Up the mountain, then, to put a bit of time between them, until he could climb no more and flopped down on a sharp outcrop to catch his breath around his agonising tongue and get rid of the rope around his wrists..

There was no-one close behind him. He couldn't imagine Moriarty struggling and puffing up the steep slope with a rucksack in pursuit. Something else going on, then. It was staring to get colder as the afternoon wore on. He'd do badly out here at night with nothing. Seb looked back down towards the cottage, saw the dark stain of way too much smoke starting to seep through the treetops. That left the car. If he was fast enough he could get there first.

It seemed that he had. He'd circled the car twice, seen no-one. It looked exactly as they'd left it. It was getting seriously dark by now and he'd soon be too cold to do much. He broke cover, dropped to his knees to check for devices underneath the chassis. Nothing. Nothing through the windows. The car was his. He'd need to jimmy the lock; Seb reached for the radio antenna, and as he touched it something hit him hard.

He woke, cold beyond belief and with a thumping headache that Bat Out Of Hell at full volume wasn't helping with. Speadeagled over chilly metal; the bonnet of the damn car, his cheek up against the windscreen. His wrists and legs weren't moving. Fuck.

Seb opened his eyes into the glare. He was looking straight at the boss, who had his feet up on the dash and was eating a sandwich in the internal light. The music was painfully loud. Moriarty looked back at him and smiled, predatory. He'd wired up the antenna for a near lethal jolt, left handed. Never underestimate the man. Seb winced as his shoulder cramped; his wrists were tied to the rear view mirrors. He thought his calves must be wired to the front grille, his feet off the ground, but his legs were so cold that he'd lost most feeling. His abused tongue throbbed unremittingly but he knew that wasn't what would kill him so he ignored it as far as he could.

First things first. He mouthed a word at the man inside, who frowned, mouthed "What?" back at him.

"Bat-ter-ry!"

"Ah!" Jim nodded, put down the sandwich to reach over to the ignition and the engine shook into life under Seb's stomach. He felt a flicker of relief that they weren't stranded, then satisfaction that he'd thought of something Moriarty had overlooked. Jim left the engine running, went back to his sandwich. The bonnet was warming; enough to keep him from hypothermia at least.

Warming unnaturally fast. Seb suddenly became aware that it might not be the cold that would get to him after all. His genitals were compressed against the metal hood. 

He bashed his head awkwardly against the windscreen to get Jim's attention again.

"Hot!"

"So?"

"Turn It Off!" Pause. "Please!"

Jim's eyes slitted, considering him. Then a couple of gestures killed the music and the lights, the engine stopped and he heard the door open.

"You're remarkably bossy this evening, Sebastian. First engine on, then engine off. Am I your servant now?" 

Seb craned his head sideways, but the night on the mountainside was black and he could make out nothing. "You're the boss." The words came out mangled but Jim always understood him. 

The silence told him he'd misspoken, and he realised how. Out here in the wilderness he'd been let free to run as prey, then hunted down with ruthless focus. "You're the tiger."

The snarl of response in the darkness raised the hairs on the back of his neck. He could hear the wind in the trees, nothing else. If Moriarty was moving he did it silently. Seb imagined huge paws against the ground, two eyes gleaming in the night. Despite all his pain and discomfort, his helplessness and the expectation that he'd been brought here to die, his cock stirred. A better end than shot or stabbed or dying of exposure.

A low growl from the other side of him and he tensed against the ropes, adrenaline burning. Half his thoughts were of the huge, inhuman beast prowling in the trees around him, the more rational half an inventory of what Moriarty had and what he might use.

The noises continued; the cat circling its trapped prey. Seb pulled carefully at the rope around his wrists, testing. If he had enough time he could work one hand loose; he started on it.

A cold touch on the inside of his outstretched thigh and he shivered before he could stop himself. Hot breath huffed across the small of his back. Forget the inventory. Jim had endless subtle tortures to choose from, but the tiger would just claw and bite and penetrate. And he was stretched out for it, helpless, his arse presented bare and open to teeth and talons and cock; he was hard now against the unyielding metal, heart thumping.

A heavy paw landed high up on his spine, the sharp prick of nails resting against his bare skin. A second on his right shoulder; he had a instant thought of the boss's mutilated hand, but the tiger snarled and he forgot it. He could swear that the musk scent was in the air, but it had to be just his own sweat. A wolf howled nearby in the forest and others joined it. The tiger snarled louder, jealous of its prey.

Teeth sank deep into the nape of Seb's neck and he cried out at the blazing pain. The tiger shook him once against the constraints, let go, bit him again a little lower down. He struggled and the claws hooked into flesh, started to drag furrows downwards. Then teeth and claws released him.

Seb could heard only his own laboured breath and the wolves. Wolves didn't attack people as a rule, but a naked helpless bleeding human might be an exception. Never mind the wolves; there was a far more dangerous animal right here. A warm tongue licked at the blood, then the tiger bit at him fast several times, ripping the skin off his back, making him howl.

And now the penetration, hammering against his arse, grinding him against the metal, forcing the way in with faster and faster thrusts until he was bruised and battered and the beast accommodated. It was over, then, and him abandoned to pain and his own ache of need. 

A few minutes later the car door opened and the light went on. The boss was dressed, composed, apparently uninterested in anything but finishing the paperback Seb had put in his bag back in England. Every so often he flicked the ignition on for a few minutes to keep the battery going, but never for long enough to overheat the bonnet.

Seb concentrated on getting his hand free. The wolves still howled occasionally. Eventually he worked his wrist free of the rope, got the other bonds untied and staggered with difficulty around to the passenger door.

"About time." Jim started the ignition again, put the car in gear. Left hand drive, Seb thought fuzzily, then passed out. 

He woke again barely long enough to be transfered, still naked, bleeding and shivering, into the back of another vehicle. The next time he was woken by strangers around him, one shaking him hard and saying something he couldn't translate. He slipped away again.

A hospital bed, a drop in his arm, bandages. This time he stayed awake long enough to listen to the English translator. Hypothermia, but he was through the worst of it. His other injuries were improving without need for stitches, though they were giving him antibiotics because human bites could carry infection and intravenous nutrition while his tongue healed.

No-one introduced themselves, told him where he was or asked him any questions. Even weak and hazy he knew what that meant. Someone had paid or threatened for his care and their silence. Jim wanted him alive and whole.

A week later they threw him out, very politely. He stood at the gate of the private hospital, still unsure of what country he was in and with nothing but a set of new clothes and an itchy beard, and waited to see if anything would happen. After an hour or so he was contemplating sticking his thumb out at the occasional passing car and mugging anyone who stopped, but before he could put this rather uninspiring plan in action a white limo pulled up to the gate.

It took him to an airfield, and a private jet flew him the short journey to Frankfurt. He was reunited with the boss in a luxury apartment in the centre of the city. Jim took one look at him and wrinkled his nose. "Ugh, facial hair. Take it all off."

Seb took off his shirt in front of the first mirror he'd seen in a week and stared. The soreness around his neck that he'd taken for a forgotten rope burn had been no such thing. He ran his fingers over the near healed skin, the deep black and grey ink stains. It was well done, shaded to three dimensions, the metal almost glinting. A chain tattooed high and tight around his neck, a dog tag engraved J.M. drawn hanging in the dip of his throat, above his pulse. No wonder the mirrors had been removed in the hospital bathroom.

"Faithless mongrel." The boss at the doorway sounded almost fond. "Did you really think I'd trust Mycroft's eyes and ears with everything? There's half a billion pounds across the globe that you never saw."

His voice stayed high and cheerful. "That game was moderately entertaining for a while but it's done. You walk precisely to heel from now on or I will rip you and everyone whose name you ever bothered to remember apart. Shave and dress. We're going out to dinner."

There were no high collars in his wardrobe, no scarves. Seb strode out along the city street with Jim, marked and knowing he was being marked. How long till a photo got back to Mycroft, to John? Hours, he reckoned. Jim was making no attempt at disguise.

Let them see. The boss's dog was what he was. He wanted no one to hope or imagine anything else about him again. He watched the small, ridiculous figure almost skipping ahead of him, camera flashing in his good hand, like a tourist without a care in the world, and the noise of the city around him sounded like the snarl of a thousand tigers in the dark.


End file.
